A Matter of Honor

“Yes.”

On the hour Adam phoned and listened carefully to all Lawrence had to say.

“I’ll take one more risk,” said Adam, “but if Romanov turns up this time, I’ll hand over the icon to him personally and with it a piece of property so valuable that no amount of money the Americans could offer would be sufficient to purchase it back.”

When Adam put the phone down Lawrence and Sir Morris played the conversation back over again and again.

“I think property’s the key word,” said Sir Morris.

“Agreed,” said Lawrence, “but what piece of property could be that valuable to both the Russians and the Americans?”

Sir Morris began slowly revolving the globe that stood by the side of his desk.

“What does that buzz mean?” asked Romanov. “We are not running out of petrol again, are we?”

“No, sir,” said the chauffeur. “It’s the new calling device now fixed to all ambassadorial cars. It means they expect me to check in.”

“Turn round and go back to that petrol station we passed a couple of miles ago,” Romanov said quietly.

Romanov started tapping the dashboard impatiently as he waited for the petrol station to reappear on the horizon. The sun was going down quickly, and he feared it would be dark within the hour. They had traveled about ninety kilometers beyond Dijon, and neither he nor Valchek had even seen a yellow Citroen going either way.

“Fill up again while I phone Geneva,” Romanov said the moment he saw the petrol station. He ran to the phone booth while Valchek still kept a watchful eye on the passing traffic.

“I am answering your signal,” said Romanov when he was put through to the euphemistically titled second secretary.

“We’ve had another call from Mentor,” said the second secretary. “How far are you from Dijon?”

The member stumbled about the dimly lit room until he came across an unoccupied table wedged up against a pillar in one corner. He sat down on a little leather stool by its side. He swiveled around nervously, as he always did when waiting for someone to bring him his usual malt whiskey on the rocks. When the drink was placed on the table in front of him he sipped at it, in between trying to discover if there were any new faces spread around the dark room. Not an easy task, as he refused to put on his glasses. His eyes eventually became accustomed to the dim light thrown out by the long red fluorescent bulb that stretched above the bar. All he could make out were the same old faces staring at him hopefully; but he wanted something new.

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bsp; The proprietor, noticing that a regular customer had remained on his own, came and sat opposite him on the other little stool. The member never could get himself to look the man in the eyes.

“I’ve got someone who’s very keen to meet you,” whispered the proprietor.

“Which one?” he asked, looking up once more to check the faces at the bar.

“Leaning on the jukebox in the corner. The tall, slim one. And he’s young,” added the proprietor. He looked toward the blaring machine. A pleasing new face smiled at him. He smiled nervously back.

“Was I right?” asked the proprietor.

“Is he safe?” was all he asked.

“No trouble with this one. Upper-class lad, right out of a top-drawer public school. Just wants to earn a bit of pocket money on the side.”

“Fine.” The member took a sip of whiskey.

The proprietor walked over to the jukebox. The member watched him talking to the young man. The boy downed his drink, hesitated for a moment, then strolled across the crowded floor to take the empty stool.

“My name is Piers,” the young man said.

“Mine’s Jeremy,” the member said.

“A gentle name,” said Piers. “I’ve always liked the name Jeremy.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

“A dry martini, please,” said Piers.